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. 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. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. . His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. Only I am not an acquaintance at all. It has been already intimated that Jack had an excessive passion for finery; and it might have been added, that the chief part of his ill-gotten gains was devoted to the embellishment of his person. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. But after all, Mrs. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life.
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