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 turned to Melusine, ignoring the indignant protest that greeted his words. Sheila’s boys hadn’t been much help when they were around the house, anyway, they were more partial to lolling around on couches and running around with their girls. ’ ‘Only a few minutes, miss. There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence.
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