But here the resemblance stopped. 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. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. ” She fought to keep her teeth from chattering.
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