" Mr. 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. "Since the sea has spared him, I will spare him. Spurlock has gone. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. “So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. I guess we could go for a ride. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you.
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