He waved a hand toward the sea. 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. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. ” He paced the room for a minute or two restlessly. ” “No,” she moaned, “not that. “I want an engagement. I had a perfect shoal of callers. There was hope for me then. A man is so apt to—to take women a little too lightly. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales.
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