"I'm afraid I must decline to tell you. 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. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. This spike is more than half cut through.
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