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. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. . I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. I've a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples's care. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. Go and live somewhere else.
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