Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. His tone was rough, almost threatening. 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. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. Capes sat down in the armchair beside her.
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