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. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Another long interval elapsed. CHAPTER XVIII. Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French. He was always in a state of semi-intoxication, but he was always gentle with me.
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