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. Having seen every precaution taken to ensure his safe custody, he departed, muttering to himself, "I shall yet live to see him hanged—I shall live to see him hanged. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. ” “And the people?” Brendon asked. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. . ’ ‘What if she goes back to Charvill?’ demanded Roding. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies.
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