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. There was a certain amount of disputation, and meanwhile she went on at school. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. I sat within a few feet of him. 165 “Uh, my parents are going skiing in Colorado after New Year’s.
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