He taught her about crowds, which men were the evilest, how to locate and dispose society’s garbage. ’ A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. 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. Wood,—the person whom you may remember adopted him,—at Dollis Hill, near Willesden; and it's a singular but fortunate circumstance, so far as we are concerned, that Mrs.
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