“Eight, Cavendish Square. \" 66 She commented as more doors slammed. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. ‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. “That sounds interesting. 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. ‘Very well, arrest me.
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