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. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. ” He returned to and developed that idea. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. “Was I that bad?” He asked.
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