’ Impatience overtook Melusine’s resolve momentarily. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. 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 smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face.
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