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 thought as much," sneered Mrs. ” “Not now. Stanley allowed his paper to drop a little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their three fellow-travellers. ‘But tell me this instead. I admired your chivalry. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. ” They were lingering over their dessert. His fears were allayed once he checked the answering machine to hear their analog voices reporting their arrival at the Colorado airport. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. On Thursday we embark for South America.
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