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. The others hurried to the window. “You are late,” she murmured. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. ’ ‘But if you have not seen him, then he has certainly escaped.
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