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. ’ The snaking suspicion rolled through his mind again. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. "Children," said the aunt, first to awake, "be young fools as long as God will permit you. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. It is repulsive. I was always used to it, and I think it gives quite a tone to an establishment. " "Keep it," said Trenchard, haughtily.
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