" He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. ” Mr. 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. "So it is," the doctor agreed. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other.
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