It was for ever. ” “It isn’t that you’re splendid or I,” said Capes. 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. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago.
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