"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. 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 never even burrowed down into the trunk. All the precious paintings and statues of the divine family were here, as was the enormous wooden crucifix set above the altar. “Kindly explain it to me. I don’t know.
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