He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. You ought to have had better advice two years ago. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. 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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