Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. 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.
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