What can she have done to deserve such a fate? Oh!” They both turned round at Anna’s exclamation. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. 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.
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