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 quickened, “I never slept with Kate Pfister, you know, and when I confronted her about all the pranks that she and her idiot friends had pulled she denied it all. ’ His head came thrusting out at Melusine like a belligerent tortoise from its shell. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. The imbecile.
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