" "But, goodness me, the hotel will take care of him! Why not? They sold him the poison. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. 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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