It wouldn’t be you. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. 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. Sheppard's ward, Sir. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. Irreton. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed.
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