With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. 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. ” “I’ll wait, then. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will. \" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel.
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