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. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. “I expected to stay with a relation, but I found that their arrangements did not allow of it. Stanley and his sister into a taxicab, and had waved an amiable farewell from the pavement steps. Groping their way through one or two dark and mouldy-smelling vaults, the party ascended a flight of steps, which brought them to the hall. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. Now then.
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