His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. But you had better know the truth to start with. 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. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. The door was then locked, and he was left alone. At a little distance from the party, sat a tall, sinister-looking personage, with harsh inflexible features, a gaunt but muscular frame, and large bony hands. ” “Kate who?” Lucy asked.
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