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'm afraid I must decline to tell you. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. ” “But will you?” “YES. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. “I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg.
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