"Do you see any likeness?" "Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. 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 length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose.
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