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. This is a mere boy. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. Spurlock stepped into the room.
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