His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. 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. Had I not known that you and your affianced bride are dearer to him than life I should have used this money to secure my own safety. "I didn't imagine for a moment that you'd accept it, but I thought it right to make you the offer. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. ” “Heavens!” the lady exclaimed. "Lord, if I can only remember to write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet.
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