” “I do want to tell you things, nevertheless. McClintock sent his yacht over for us this morning. He has been a father to me and my child. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. The atmosphere at dinner was not propitious. Stanley lost patience. 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. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here.
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