A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. 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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