Oh, John. "Auntie?" he cried. Anna——” Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. 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. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. I might forgive him that, for he obviously taught her a good deal that she has found useful.
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