’ ‘Ha! You’re Catholic, too, damn his eyes,’ growled the general. 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. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. The faithful fellow will never leave me. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature.
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