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. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. No doubt— because he did not understand you—he thought you had run away with someone. Get on, do. I am resolved to see her, without delay, and ascertain if it's possible to remove her. “You don’t want to go?” “No.
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