"My friend here," said McClintock, "tells me you are looking for a job. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. I looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. . ’ “Crude, I admit. I’ve had my time and lost my chances. Paul's are his work. I was mean to him. 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.
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