Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. If you can tell me nothing I don’t already know, so be it. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. "Good night, Master. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. 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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