God must love me, for he has guided me here. 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 the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. ” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered.
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