"You've got to kill me to get out of here alive. ’ ‘I am a very English man,’ Gerald said. “I wish you would come and see my lawyers. 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. So it is that I do not do these things. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse.
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