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. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. Me, you may have. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. I came in by the vestry, and we will go out that way again.
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