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. Hollyhocks make one think of a bright June Sunday and the way to church!" "Do you suppose that young fool has done anything?" The doctor shrugged. And in the Avenue she had an encounter with Ramage. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone.
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