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. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. ” He said mischievously. and Mrs. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service.
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