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. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. "Has no man ever kissed you?" "No. There were two. Would a hundred dollars interest you?" "Very much, if I can earn it without offending my conscience. I thank God for His sunlight on your face. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room.
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