He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. ” Brendon was not inclined to be led away from the point. 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. Let this be a caution to you in future—with whom, and about what you deal. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand. “Yes. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress.
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