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. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse. “Have you much ability?” asked Ann Veronica. I love you. “I am the most foolish of men. "Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast.
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