It’s not you—not a bit. 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. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir. ” “And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “and yet he did not know me.
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