It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. 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. And nowhere could I obtain the slightest information. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. Every one turned to her in astonishment. Part 5 Presently it occurred to Ann Veronica to ask about the journey he had planned.
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