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. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. \" She said, looking beside him at a taller boy who appeared to be bored. He's settling an account in the house. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes.
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