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. She would not forgive me. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. ’ A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye. " "I will try to do so," replied the widow, forcing a smile. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance. Fifty pupils. I almost died from this flu.
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