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. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. I am bored to distraction. " "What kind?" "Dickens, Hugo. "You can generally understand that language.
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