“I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. ’ ‘Your plan, then. “No reason. 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. When I went I was refused admittance. didn’t have to. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child.
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