" "I've heard of him," replied Jack, impatiently. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “I have my methods. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. You are marvelous!” Carolyn Diedermayer exclaimed. 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. Miss Mary to the life. "Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof.
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