Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. “What about blood banks? Have you ever tried them?” “I don’t just take blood, John. I can’t help it. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. 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.
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