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. They tried to read illustrated papers in an unconcerned manner and with forced attention, lest they should catch the leaping exultation in each other’s eyes. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue.
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