She parted the curtains to find him standing there. 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. There will be no more children in this house, not ever! And if anyone ever tries bringing children into our house again, I shall kill the lot of them. You say that this gentleman was with you?” “I was,” Brendon answered, “most providentially. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. He was now aided with a powerful implement, with which he soon contrived to make a hole in the wall. It is really cheap, you know.
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