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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. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. ” “You could never be that,” he answered, “but you are at least more serious than usual.
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