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. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. I had a hunch. Brown broke the silence. .
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