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As she had dreaded, the police officer in the car was politely waiting for John to depart, and exited the squad as soon as John turned at the Pine Crest stop sign. ” She taunted. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. 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. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. ‘If you’ll have the goodness, missie, to move yourself out of the way,’ he said aggrievedly, ‘and let us at him, we might have a chance of doing just that. Not these twenty year. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. I'll be quiet. But not so much a pig as that man. He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. He waved a cordial goodbye. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness.

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