Gone were the old days where an old maid banged on an upright piano above a roaring crowd, this sound was loud enough to be heard outside the building, she thought to herself as her eardrums throbbed. 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. “Why?” he asked, suavely. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. To her satisfaction, the captain reddened a trifle. An extra pair of gym clothes materialized within fractions of a second. I will go to-night.
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