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. I would not have him know—now—for the world. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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