It’s a thing I’ve unaccountably overlooked. Capital swordsman. 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. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. He made his headquarters at the Victoria on the Sha-mien, and generally met the Hong-Kong packet in the morning. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. She still could not muster the strength to leave.
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