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 will arrest me? For—for—’ ‘Trespass, theft and spying,’ snapped Hilary. ” She thought of her father, and with an effort dismissed him from her mind. My wife—killed me. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself.
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