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Influenced, probably, by what he had heard from Mr. I think she might be up to something. 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. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm.
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