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 area in front of the jail was completely filled. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. ” Courtlaw refused brusquely, almost rudely. That’s Italians for you.
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