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. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. “Cheer up, Annabel. ‘Possibly,’ he said. His smile faded. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man.
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