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 have been very foolish, but it is over. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. The streets were full of colour. Warren’s Profession. And the woollen-draper departed. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more.
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