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I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. 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. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above.
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