” For a moment Mr. I am a murderer. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. 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. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning.
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