Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. I had a hunch. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. I’ve paid for you and helped you, and I’m going to conquer you somehow—if I have to break you to do it. 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. "Dear me!" she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, "what a beautiful ring that is.
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