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 had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. She felt flattered. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us.
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