pgdp. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. 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. “Molly and you settled about the rooms. ’ ‘Yes, well, I was too young to see it,’ the captain said, tying a knot in his makeshift bandage.
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