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. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. " "Halloo, Nab!" vociferated Quilt. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. You wore a blue dress with your hair unbound, and never had I seen a maid so glorious with eyes so blue or a smile so bright. There were more of us back then, and we weren’t seen as ghouls, in fact, in Greece and the time before we were worshipped as gods.
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