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. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. ‘So it is that you have made Jacques betray me. "I give you one minute for reflection. ” She slipped it on her finger, and added, in a voice she tried to make matter-of-fact: “It was given to me last week. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. It was true. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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