Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. 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. . Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise. “We parted— that night the best of friends. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said.
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