A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. 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. ’ ‘Bravo,’ applauded Lucilla, clapping her hands. ” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds.
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