‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. 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 the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed.
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