“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. 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. \" Cathy beamed.
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