A man as rich as you are ought to have a thousand-ton yacht. 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. She could not see any relief from this anxiety except repayment, and repayment seemed impossible. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed.
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