" "Jack seems to be a great favourite with the fair sex," observed a smirking grocer's apprentice. 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. "I have been very unhappy. . “Please don’t,” she said. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs.
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