‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. 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. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. But you couldn't. “Here,” he said, “is this Blau See, and here we rest until to-morrow. C. 1.
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