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. ” “Did you ever formally change your name to Albert, Lucy?” “No, I did not. You can’t! I tell you frankly you may break off your engagement to me—I shall hold myself still engaged to you, yours just the same. I shall know what to say to him when he comes. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy.
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