But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Give us that—” Ann Veronica came in with a certain disregard of Miss Miniver. 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.
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