" "Here is the sum you bargained for," rejoined Trenchard, flinging a pocket-book on the table; "count it. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. "Well, without immediate care he would have passed out. 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. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him.
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