At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. He wore a long coat, beautifully flowered, and a hat with a turned up brim. 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. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage. Reconnoitring them through a small grated loophole, he refused to open the door till they had explained their business. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
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