“Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked. ‘Come, cry a truce. The coolies proceeded at a swinging, mincing trot, which gave to the suspended seat a dancing action similar to that of a suddenly agitated hangingspring of a birdcage. That added to his puzzle. ’ ‘Ain’t you in a rage?’ asked the captain. Ah Cum had no business taking him into the city last night. 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.
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