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. ’ Melusine gave it up. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug. He removed his cocked hat and came towards her.
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