“We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. " "What!" she exclaimed, staring eagerly in his face. 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.
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