" "I agree to that. ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. "You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. 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 destroyed her clumsily made dolls whenever he found them. “Here goes for the new life!” “Here goes for the new life,” he echoed and stood up.
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