Good riddance to bad rubbish. Gregory B. 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 robbers proceeded singly, and kept on the grass skirting the road, so that no noise was made by their horses' feet.
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