"So I did," retorted Mrs. 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. ‘Thanks to him, Hilary and I nearly had our heads blown off. Yet through these talks, these meetings and conferences, these movements and efforts, Ann Veronica, for all that she went with her friend, and at times applauded with her enthusiastically, yet went nevertheless with eyes that grew more and more puzzled, and fine eyebrows more and more disposed to knit. " "And, if you want an additional inducement to do so, I can tell you there's no one —not even his mother—whom he loves so well as you.
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