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’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully. ’ ‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. ” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again. Sheppard was enabled to take possession of the premises. 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 filled her with indefinable fear. " "No. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face.
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