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. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “It’s a period of crude views and crude work,” said Mr. . ’ Gerald tutted. "Aw Come. The settlements which he has spoken of, too, are most munificent.
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