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“I’ll ruin your suit. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery. "Let me go," cried Winifred. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. “Eight, Cavendish Square. At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. 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. "Do better in future. He stood still, almost breathless. Hearing the distant shouts, these fellows rushed down to the entrance of the court, and arrived there just as Jack passed it.
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