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. You come with those clear eyes of yours, as valiant as an angel. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. " "Horror!" cried Jack. " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him. Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. A sea voyage under sail will be the making of him.
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