“You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. 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. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe.
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