’—he’s frightfully anti-Mendelian—having it all their own way. 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. Trenchard glanced at the document. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. “Hola Marteen!” She exclaimed cheerfully. He could scarcely blame her.
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