" And she left the room with Blueskin, who very politely offered her his arm. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. 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've engaged to watch over you as a son, and I will do so as far as I'm able; but if you neglect my advice, what chance have I of benefitting you? On one point I've made up my mind—you shall either obey me, or leave me. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles.
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