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. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. ” Ann Veronica felt a slight embarrassment. " The young woman laid a finger on her lips, cautioning O'Higgins to silence. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. " "There's some one in the garden at this moment," cried Jack; "I saw a face at the window.
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