I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return. A lucky escape. 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. Excuse me an instant while I dismiss this person. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes.
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