"Don't stir," replied Jack. 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 can’t seem to get out of chairs without flashing my brassiere to the whole of Creation. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. ” “And what are you doing here?” the lady asked.
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