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. He kissed her ardently. " She departed reluctantly. "I shall want nothing more. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his lashes. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. I'll forgive him if he does.
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