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. It was bare of any furnishings. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Sheppard.
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