CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. He won’t be in uniform. 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. “This means a plunge. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. E. . Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. Easy enough. CHAPTER XXVI Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain rattle behind him. He kissed her once inside the car.
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