Valade stood his ground, holding the doorjamb, and facing up to the general. 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. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna. Sir John hesitated. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria.
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