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. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. She tried not to blush. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine.
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