It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. 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. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. Pig and brute! Yet calling him hard names would not help her. ’ ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. This way, Sir Rowland.
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