She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. 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. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork.
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