” His voice assumed an easy detached tone. They drove rapidly through the emptying streets. She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. Rhea commanded her. 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. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly.
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