’ Melusine stared. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. “Mean as an old mule, too. 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. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path.
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