You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. 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. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. ” “As you will, dear lover. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. ToC About an hour after this, Jack ventured to emerge from his place of concealment. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked.
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