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. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion of rats. "But we'll find a way to make you open your lips presently. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food.
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