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. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy.
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