Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. 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. "I have sworn to see him hanged," he said, "and nothing shall keep me away— nothing, by——.
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