He walked across the Park and called upon his sister. 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. “I hope you will not compel me to say again that I do not know the man’s name, nor, to the best of my belief, have I ever seen him before in my life. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. ” “Why not? Your spirits at least should be good. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. “Your sister’s future is at stake. She had to wear cream and a brown sash and a short frock and her hair down, and Gwen cream and a brown sash and a long skirt and her hair up.
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