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. "What the devil are you howling about?" cried Langley. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. ‘You are not sympathique in the very least.
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