" "Dear sister——" "I should die happy, if I could behold my child. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. “But, dear, think! He is your father. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. 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. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century.
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