E. 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. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. These amazing infants! Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant to steal whatever it was he had stolen. You’re all such good cooks. "You'll get nothing out of me, I can promise you, unless you show a little more civility.
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