His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. 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. After several vain attempts to burst it open, he resolved, as a last alternative, to break through the wall in the part nearest to the lock. The Burglary at Dollis Hill 249 III.
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