‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. The gentlemen are so particular now, and a good thing too, I say. And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene. 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.
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