It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. 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.
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