“Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’ ‘Quite right. 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. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. It was Annabel who spoke. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him.
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