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. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation. Clearing the recess the instant after his companion, he flew to the door of the inner room, and, locking it, took out the key. Melusine gave herself a little mental shake.
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