The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. 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. ” “That’s a relief. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. ” Ann Veronica could have wept with vexation.
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