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. He parried without apparent effort. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. ” She smiled, sure of herself beyond any pretending, into his troubled eyes. “Mr.
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