‘You know?’ ‘Come, come, Melusine. 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. The room was dark and dusty. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket.
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