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. ‘It’s a pretty name. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Not part with him!" added he aloud. “I knew I should have died!” She went fast into a state of shock.
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