“So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. Shari entered the room in a damp towel, fresh from the shower. 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. " Mr. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit.
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