So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. 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. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch.
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