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. He'll be able to help us a little now. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. Four prisoners, termed "The Partners," had charge of this hold. Unlocking a cupboard, he then took out some cold meat and other viands, with a flask of wine, and a bottle of brandy, and began to eat and drink voraciously. He was mad.
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