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She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. ” “So much the better,” Anna declared cheerfully. . 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. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour.
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