One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. 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. John looked at his feet bashfully. Ennison, who had been standing with his back to the window, came suddenly a little further into the room.
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