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. In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. “I got your note just in time,” he remarked. Good-bye, aunt. “In all fairness,” she thought to herself as she coaxed his mouth toward her left nipple.
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