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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. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. Caliban sarch ebery hole in de place, but Shack no dere.
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