He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. “The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him. ” He asked questions and listened to her views for a time. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. 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. ‘Never mind that now. ‘For my money, you’ll not get much out of old Jarvis either. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. As sure as he is now living, I'll pay him a visit in the Old Bailey before morning. Just as Jack gained the entrance, he heard a man's footstep behind him, and aware that the slightest indiscretion would betray him, he halted, uncertain what to do.
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