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. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why. ” “I am rebuked,” she declared. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. Sebastian’s land holdings were enormous, reaching across the Alps. That is my way, my dear.
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