Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. 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. “It’s—private. Ruth went on to explain.
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