"Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. You're a friend of the young man?" "If you mean did I know him before he became ill, no. 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'm gonna hit the showers while I'm here, do you mind waiting a few minutes?\" \"Not at all. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess. “But—your people!” she gasped. .
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