“Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. All concerned in the dark transaction must have perished. “But I am your husband,” he said. ‘I am not in the least in a rage. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. 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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