Look at me, and answer me one question. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. 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. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar.
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