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. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. Blueskin will go with you,—for fear of a mistake.
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