Sudden indignation boiled up in him. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. 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. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. “If I do,” he said.
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