Trenchard glanced at the document. "No matter," replied Sheppard. She said you HAD some money. 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. Consternation gripped him. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink.
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