Gerald’s judgement was borne out a moment later. Forgive my daring. "All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. You knew me in Paris. 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.
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