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” “We’ll have, thank God! ten myriad days to tell each other things. "A doctor at once!" cried Ruth excitedly. We were going at a mad pace. Mike’s a fireman and he’s got kids too. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. 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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