” “Oh, neat. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. "I've lost my wager. 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. I am betrothed to Captain Roding, which is why you can’t have him, you see.
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