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. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight; Such dullards know nothing about it. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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