Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. 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. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. “It’s very late. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The lady grasped it more firmly and turned it upon Hilary.
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