Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation. We had better have it over. I hated him. “You’re burning up. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. 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.
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