She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. 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've ruined my hopes. " "Tell it. He understood. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale.
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