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. ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor. She caught at the idea. " "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. " "Twenty pounds," rejoined Mrs.
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