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. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. " She smiled, and returned to the spinsters. I hope this is all. "After him," cried Wild; "he mustn't escape.
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