“You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. Blueskin, you are a true friend. ’ ‘All the way to England?’ She opened wide eyes. 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. Perhaps what I need is something to bite in.
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