I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. ” “You need help and sympathy more, Anna,” he pleaded, “and I have the right, yes I have the right to offer you both. “I have given her two days’ holiday,” Anna answered. 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. He told me that he was a millionaire.
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