” “It’s gone. I'm no great judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. 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.
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