Can’t ask the gent to go abroad and condone a bigamy. 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. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy.
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