The Well Hole 336 XIII. 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. “Have you never met a suitable wife? What is wrong with getting married and having children as Mike and Shari have done? I should love to think. ” She sat motionless, with her hand tightening over the edge of the table, and he, too, said no more.
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