You’ve placed me in a very exceptional position, Miss Stanley. He nodded silently, too full for words. She held up the lamp. 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. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. You, Anna, are one of them. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word.
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