What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. 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. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon.
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