But come in, dear. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. " "You had better take some refreshment before you start," rejoined Wild. 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.
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