“Mr. 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. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Instead, her husband was probably wise. " He did not pause to consider how she had learned that he had imagination; he comprehended only the direct challenge.
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