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. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections.
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