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. ‘What else do you expect? It’s the penalty you pay for marrying an Englishman. I love you—unendurably. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. The flush deck was without wells.
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