It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. I think too much about myself. 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. ‘Wait for me. Schoolgirl.
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