James's built for offices of the meanest description. "Now, lead me to a hotel where I can get breakfast. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. ' So I go to Patagonia. 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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