He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. ” The lady stood away from the door. 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. ” She replied. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!—capital pie!—and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary.
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