‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. 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. "My worst fears are realized. Was he planning on spending more time with her once in the country? The streets choked with beggars and the dying. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. Then a ride to London on horseback.
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