The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. 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. It wasn’t pretty. It fell with a clatter to the floor. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence.
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This video was uploaded to adiszena.com on 24-09-2024 19:36:56
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