Occasionally he relit his pipe. “Yes. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. “Is that plain?” she asked. 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. Sheppard, faintly. Englishmen also certainly. Nasty, damp passages.
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