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. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. " "I've heard of him," replied Jack, impatiently. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. " CHAPTER XVIII. We felt like thieves. “That’s a weird name. ‘Yes, but I’m probably chasing moonbeams. The cave had always been considered an evil place by the braves and for the most part they left her alone. Nice lady.
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