Gay," he added, turning to the poet. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. "Curiosity, I suppose," returned Jack, carelessly. E. 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. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. The fireplace was at the other end, with the sheeted shapes of two sofas either side. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. ” She looked at her toes. "Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat.
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