Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. ’ ‘Then do it,’ Melusine said with impatience. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. 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 blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before.
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