” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I’m damaged goods. " He laughed and followed her into the hotel. 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. “I am frightened now. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. ’ ‘People are silly. In the first place, Mrs.
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