Q. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. He was suddenly calm. The rest was easy. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. 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.
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