But I will never—never return. 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. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection.
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