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. "And I," muttered Jack. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. And I want him out of uniform.
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