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. ‘Come, I told you I wish to know everything about you. You may have something to conceal, you may not. “Really!” said Mr. ‘Stay, Saling!’ The butler halted, looking round enquiringly.
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