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. “You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort. ‘You can’t go to England. ” “Why do you think so?” she asked. ” It was a long, meandering talk, stupid, shameful, and unavoidable. "He's about to cross the river. Nobody can anticipate your next move.
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