“I am going to ignore it. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. 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. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. “Showtime!” Martin cried.
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