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. Man, if you tell her you love her, and later they took you away to prison, who would sit at the prison gate until your term was up? Ruth. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants.
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