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. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a manner as unexpected as appalling. “We will follow you in another cab. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. He went by another name then,—Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely.
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