Sebastian was always a man who felt the need to surround himself with the trappings of the finer life. Her place was not filled; she had been simply noted as absent, and she did a comforting day of admirable dissection upon the tortoise. 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.
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