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. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable. Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. The rest. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney.
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