Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Quite right. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy. 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.
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