. 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. ’ They passed through a little antechamber, and Melusine sighed with relief as she entered the library next door. "What do you want?" he asked, in a gruff voice. ’ ‘What name would you like, then?’ Her shadowed features turned in his direction.
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