“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. I will endeavour. 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. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. ” He fumed. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him.
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