"I'm sorry," she said. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. ’ Roding started. 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. “Mary!” He whispered loudly. ” “For example?” “Your dyed hair. “Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry.
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