The report of his detention caused an immense sensation. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. ’ ‘Pray don’t,’ begged Mrs Sindlesham, one eye on the general’s embattled features. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. 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.
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