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. “You mustn’t say anything more to your mother, Michelle. "Of course, I haven't the least evidence that the boy has done anything wrong; it's what I'd call a hunch; piecing this and that together. The shock and distress were genuine. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. didn’t have to.
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