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 was a unique experience for her to wash him. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. The windows which were about nine feet from the floor, had no glass; but were secured by thick iron bars, and an oaken beam. You bring me this grandfather, whom you know well I do not in the least wish to see, for I have told you so.
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