In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a
bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such
places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had
been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in
a few minutes at his destination. Stay! I'll go myself. But, indeed, he’s very human. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. 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. "Remove him to the Middle
Stone Hold,—watch over him night and day, do you mind?"
"I do, Sir. ‘I think you’ve gone stark,
staring crazy. "
"So she may," returned Jack, brightening up; "it's a good idea.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 10-07-2024 09:19:17