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. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another. Who? Could it be Gerald? Quickly, she looked back at Gosse’s face, and found him frowning. " "I will," replied Sheppard, dashing the glass from his hand. "I was not aware it was in danger," rejoined Darrell. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night.
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