” She paused again. 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. If a certain kink in your sense of honour will not permit you to go to her as a lover, go to her as a comrade. ” She stopped abruptly, afraid that Ramage might be able to infer Capes from the things she had said, and indeed his face was very eager.
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