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. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. " The doctor hesitated, puffing his tobacco hastily. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Our quarrel's quite over.
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