” “It is,” Annabel answered shortly. " "What's that?" asked Wood with some curiosity. She did not wince. Daughters were not like sons. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. She alone of them all knew that he was on the first leg of the terrible journey to the beach. And to wish not is useless, because you have told me from when I was a little girl. “You will go and see her,” he begged. 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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