They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. 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. “But it’s a long business. I shall quit this roof to-morrow. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. I felt suddenly I understood you—as an intelligent person. Nothing was given away, and no one came so rich to the stall as to command all that it had to offer. We’ve done nothing to deserve it. So dreadful were these shouts as to produce an effect upon the hardened feelings of Jonathan, who shrank out of sight. I'm his lieutenant,—Lieutenant Blueskin.
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