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. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. The stage manager came out from the wings, and taking her hand led her off. . ’ ‘What?’ uttered Gerald, startled.
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