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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 pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. ’ You used to declare that you hated the name. ‘Never would he have gone to England. One learns to sit up.
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This video was uploaded to probiv.club on 06-07-2024 04:35:26
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