" "I am calm—perfectly calm," replied Winifred. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of light material, and stood near the corner where the women's dresses had just been thrown down, quite out of sight of all the party, except Mrs. ‘My God!’ he said, ‘I’ll go after them and kill him. 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. For you know that I have made up my mind to dig a little way into life single-handed.
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