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. " He sent the doctor a sly glance. Gosse twisted his body to avoid another thrust, and the heavy candlesticks fell, rolling with a noise like thunder, and falling with a thud to the floor. Too much, perhaps. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. "Sorry," said McClintock, "but I must ask you to check out this afternoon before five.
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