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The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. . 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. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. It reached her only slowly that Ann Veronica was standing to her resolution. My Mom and Dad were always 184 at work.
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