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. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. He looked at his friend. They were so good to me. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. " "Never to return," remarked Jack, gloomily.
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