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. ” “My Mom complains that she’s tired all the time. It had not tasted good since 1350. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.
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