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. Shari was to be protected, to be dissuaded from driving in cars with older boys at night, to be steered away from dope and beer and certain friends who had no plans to work or to go to college. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. The Well Hole 336 XIII. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. "You're inquisitive, young gentleman," replied Jackson, coldly.
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