Instead, God had sent her Sebastianus, a man who had sold his soul to the Devil to gain eternal life, or perhaps he was even the Devil himself. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. 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. Stanley had never thought out. I imagine that even you must realize that this is of some importance. This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. You are very kind.
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