He realized that he was committed to the path across the fields, an uninteresting walk at the best of times. 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. Whatever you need to do, it is your business. There was another little thing he had to say. He looked no longer at his wife. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. He took up his hat and went.
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