“A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. In my search after strange characters, Mr. 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.
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