’ ‘Why the devil should you be interested, I should like to know?’ rejoined Roding. 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. It was no marriage at all. Maggot. The swelling in his limbs had also subsided.
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