They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout. Well, it had to happen somewhen. “Look round the table,” she said. By and by he ventured to peer into this window. 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.
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