He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. I can be that man, the one I know you want. I told you that at the outset. 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. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair.
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