". Of course a little daughter is a delightful thing enough. "Hell's curses!" muttered Jonathan between his teeth; "that fool will ruin all. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. 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. A cold shiver came over her.
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