‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. ‘If Major Alderley should happen to call, you may admit him also. ‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. He knew. He seemed to possess a penetration and cunning beyond his years—to hide a man's judgment under a boy's mask. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. Sit down, I command you. 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. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered.
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