Pistols and pictures? Now it fair goes agin’ me nature to act rough with a lady, but you’ll come along of me at once. But after a time I learned the ways of the parrakeets, and they would come down to me like doves in the stories. 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. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. . . Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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