She screamed at Sebastian. ’ He grimaced. 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. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. But, not daring to confess his want of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired. Hoddy.
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