" "My wealth," replied Mrs. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. " "What shall I do?" cried Mrs. He was an odd one, especially for a young man. 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. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields.
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