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. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid. Once before—but that had been different. Some doting parent had taught him well. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. ’ Gerald held out his hand, and she meekly gave the dagger up to him.
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