"Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. “Read this, John. " "How so?" inquired Winifred. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. 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. It was a betrayal of God and her former family, but all in all was much easier. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. In Paddington.
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