Stanley lost patience. It was a reputation by no means deserved. "One last embrace. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. 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.
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