" "Power o' mercy!" cried Blueskin starting. " "Impossible, Sir," replied Ireton, greatly alarmed. 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. Hopefully. "Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland. " Thames Darrell was, indeed, a youth of whom a person of far greater worldly consequence than the worthy carpenter might have been justly proud. They almost made me feel like they were mine.
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