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. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. ‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him.
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