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. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. Such a beautiful boy he is, but his intelligence is marginal. He was an active member of the Football Team, Forensics, Math Team, Hockey, and occasionally Baseball.
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