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 boy,” she exclaimed. But, as he made no answer, he was removed. She shrugged her shoulders. " "Respecting Thames Darrell?" observed Jack. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom.
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