Keep a sharp look out, Austin, and see that we lose no one else. 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. Let's get one idea into our heads. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. Though the starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he alighted with his little charge—which he had never for an instant quitted—in safety upon it. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. ’ ‘Aye, more’s the pity.
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