It was bleeding again. END OF THE FIRST EPOCH. 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. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. ’ ‘I still think you ought to have waited, miss. He jumped back, cursing.
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