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. Before any assistance could be rendered by the jailers, who stood astounded, Blueskin had got Wild in his clutches. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. .
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