Do you know that this becomes a habit?” “If you would only teach us all,” he murmured, “how to acquire it. 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. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. I believe—I believe that I must risk it.
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