But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. 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. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. ‘Moreover, no one will believe any more that Yolande is me when they see this.
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