The relationship seemed to have almost as much to do with blood and body as a mortgage. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. 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. Apparently he did not see his recent companions. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. " "Oh! name it. Why don’t I just go and get the key from Pottiswick?’ Alderley flicked a glance back at him over his shoulder. ” Ann Veronica said something about a general change of ideas.
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