His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. My vengeance is completely gratified. 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.
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