‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. 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. “The first is to discover what she is here for, and where she is staying. I will not be sent away. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.
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