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. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her force to repel his advances. Thames Darrell MUST die. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. Surely she could ignore him.
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