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. ” After all, it was not so easy. It’s not like we’re getting married. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. He HAD followed her! What had he followed her for? He must have followed her all the way from beyond Grosvenor Square.
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