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’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A. But how am I to know of things?” “Some things I hope you may never know,” he said.
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