” “But I’m quite equal to taking care of myself, aunt. 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. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling. Beneath that tree let us lie. Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise.
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