The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. 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. It took the relatives of the Vorsack family a few more days to file their own. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman.
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