’ Gerald considered. ’ ‘Don’t be a fool, woman,’ snapped Charvill, thrusting himself further into the room. . 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. She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise.
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