. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy. 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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