" "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted. "Pick up that blade, Nab," vociferated Wild, finding himself hotly pressed, "and stab him. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust.
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