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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. " "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. 1. Well, I told aunt. " CHAPTER VI. ‘It does not matter to me if he comes or no, madame.
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