Too bad he’s not interested in any girl who’s not a musician. You must have figured that out by now. 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. "Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.
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