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 prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. " "Indeed!" rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; "perhaps, you will refresh my memory as to the time, and place. " "As you please, Sir,—provided you don't let him off. ’ ‘I didn’t say I did not enjoy it,’ Gerald protested. And of course! She had a brilliant idea. Passing thought.
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