Here he obtained some breakfast, and mounting the hill turned off into the fields on the right. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. 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 sent a telegram, aunt,” said Ann Veronica.
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