“You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. She stared at his pleading face. Entering the Lodge, the first person he beheld was Austin, who was only just up, and whose toilette appeared scarcely completed. 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. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter.
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