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. I can’t forget about your sister. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time. “I see the pointer,” she said. They were familiar but more massive. Then Mr. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. And I’m afraid.
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