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. Wild had escaped. There was a hint of tears in her voice. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and—come in. ” She rang the bell, and he waited by her side until she was admitted to the tall, gloomy lodging-house. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. ” “Your knowledge of our ways,” he murmured “is profound.
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