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. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity.
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