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. ” “I am sure,” Lady Lescelles said, gently, “that the last consideration need not weigh with you in the least. She passed inside and upstairs without a word. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. " "Well, imagination beats me!" "It's something Ruth saw.
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