They set about everyone—everyone. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. She was finally dead, going to Hell. ’ ‘Hélas, poor you,’ Melusine rejoined sarcastically. 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 flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. The Pursuit. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know.
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