” He said, his voice tinged with worry. 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 would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs.
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