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. She had not been sufficiently prompted in relation to the ways of caravansaries; but her mind had been alert and receptive. A familiar figure was making his way towards them. I have an aunt who is coming to live with me, and I do not intend to receive any visitors at all.
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