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. I’ve never had these crying fits before. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. "As I could wish!" cried Jonathan. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. But understand me thoroughly: I am offering you this job because my friend wants to help you.
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