“One hardly knows—all the time. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. ’ ‘You mean imbecile, don’t you?’ Gerald said, and turned his head to share the joke with Melusine. 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. Some of their specimens—wonderfully selected, wonderfully got up.
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