It took all my self control not to let my hands wander. Either ignorant of the accident, or heedless of it, the foremost horseman pursued his way without even turning his head. 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. Manning.
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