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. "You mean, it doesn't matter?" "Poor Hoddy! When you were ill in Canton, out of your head, you babbled words. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. " "Dying!" echoed the knight.
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