Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. 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. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked. Do not disquiet yourself.
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