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 does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked.
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