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. “But your sister?” he asked. " "But how in the Lord's name was she brought up? There's a queer story back of this somewhere. "To go a little further. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. Play foul, and win.
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