When she reflected that Mr. “One would think I had said nothing about the matter. 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. Unless they remind him now and then not to. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn.
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