9. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. “Morning, Mom. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. John did not see her until the last period. 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. “He’s got good taste, you know. Wood hadn't struck me. Once the ship faltered, and the tip of this jade wall broke into a million gems and splashed him liberally. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.
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