She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. 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. “You are the type that I want to marry someday, you’ve got a beautiful body, such pretty eyes. " "Pearls!" "Sounds romantic, eh? Well, forty years ago the pearl game hereabouts was romantic; but there's only one real pearl region left—the Persian Gulf. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. "Noblemen. I found the door locked as usual, but when we entered this room everything was as you see. If they become bad it is through inclination, not necessity. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. Brendon.
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