I'll not forget your two mistresses, Jack. 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. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. ‘Lucky I have you to keep me from Bedlam, then. He died in the war. Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. For the first time that day, she was finally able to look into his face. I must provide for my safety.
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