Certainly you have a reason. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. 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. Relief flooded her. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at night. CHAPTER XXVIII.
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