" "Not if it will hurt her. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops. 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. She saw its depraved eyes, but worse were the glittering teeth as it smiled. " "That's easily said. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. The weather harmonized with their feelings. The crowd dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming on, put them altogether to flight. ” Ennison thought so too half an hour later, when having cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel.
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