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’m fine. Michelle laughed, saying that she could only guess. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. The Wastrel did not relish this.
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