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. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. Pistols and pictures? Now it fair goes agin’ me nature to act rough with a lady, but you’ll come along of me at once. Blueskin, however, was not unattended.
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