They clapped wildly afterward. 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. Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. He will wish to have his fears laid to rest. You can borrow any of my outfits anytime, you know.
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