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 stuck to the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion. ‘No, I don’t see much future in pursuing her down this passage. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me. Steps to aid the descent, which was too steep to be safe without them, led to, a door on the opposite side. She glimpsed Chinese penury when she entered a square given over to the fishmongers.
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