” “Why did you keep her all of these years? What good can it do?” “She created me, Lucia. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. 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. “My dear, you have learned the hard way what happens when you do not eat.
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