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. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. ” Ann Veronica picked a cornflower.
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