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. “You say that he is alive. Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audiencechamber. They found a cosy little table in the tea-rooms, and everything was delicious. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her.
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