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. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. "I will live," cried Blueskin, with a look of the deadliest hatred at Wild, "to be revenged on you. “It’s my fault. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. Chairs were overturned.
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