” “I will tell her,” Anna promised. 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 nothing to tell me?” “Nothing!” So Annabel departed with the slightest of farewells, wearing a thick travelling veil, and sitting far back in the corner of a closed carriage. And now YOU’RE on the war-path. ’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool.
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