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. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader. Today you shall promise me that you will pull no more of these stunts. You'll need all your strength to grab him. ’ The captain shook his head. “Why?” He inquired. ’ ‘So I see. I’m not sure if Janine cared.
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