She chose to hold her nose. Did you really doubt if I knew?” “No. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. The low ceiling made him seem abnormally tall. 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.
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