It was Blueskin. “You should quit. 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. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. Never mind. Ennison?” Sir John hesitated. "Don't swear, Jack, or I shall distrust you.
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