"Nobody has so much cause for complaint as me," growled Austin. 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. Mother and Son XI. Ah! what's that?" he exclaimed, as some one brushed hastily past him. "After all," he said, "this is the safest weapon. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. . ’ Reminiscence made him smile. "That's well," replied Wild, entering the house, and fastening the door.
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