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. I wasn't taught that; I simply fell into it from contact. It is very bad. ‘Where did you get that, miss?’ ‘It is the sword of monsieur le major. ’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. No one is safe.
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