” She rose up. 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. “It is the first moment we have let him out of our sight,” Brendon exclaimed, as he hastened across the street. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. ’ Melusine shrugged.
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