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. Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight; Such dullards know nothing about it. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. “It’s a nice holiday. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. Yon must be mine to-night. "Yesh," replied Abraham. They were sure to catch up with her. “Really, daddy, I am sorry for all I have done to put you out. And don’t tell me what you’ve been up to, dashing off to Remenham House with that Kimble lad, and Lord knows what besides, because I don’t want to know.
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