E. 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. What about them?” He called a hansom. Wood struck me a blow which made me a robber. “I have brought you very nearly to my door. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in. "But I soon shall be," returned Jack; "take these," he added, flinging the handcuffs against the wooden partition, "and wear 'em yourself. Give me my pistol and my dagger. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers.
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