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 strode away and vanished in the gathering fog. A cup of lies. The old lady in the antimacassar said, abruptly, “Ah! you young people, you young people, if you only knew!” and then laughed and then mused in a marked manner; and the young man with the narrow forehead and glasses cleared his throat and asked the young man in the orange tie whether he believed that Platonic love was possible. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. .
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