His eyes were closed. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. ” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely. 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. ‘Yes, I know.
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