A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. 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. Gosse was backing towards the table. That boy," he added, looking at Thames, "has his eye upon us. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. The pistol, it was not loaded. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. I shan't drive a hard bargain.
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