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. Don't worry about me. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. "Within the last few minutes, all my guilty life has passed before me. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him.
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