" "Devil!" muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. I wouldn't be in his skin for a trifle!" "But he may peach," said Smith casting an oblique glance at Jackson. 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. Whoever chose to incur the risk of so doing might enter the Mint at any hour; but no one was suffered to depart without giving a satisfactory account of himself, or producing a pass from the Master.
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