Ah! there he stands!" he exclaimed as his eye fell for the first time upon Sir Rowland. 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. “I remember hearing something about it. “Close your eyes. You wish another name? Eh bien.
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