He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. 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. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. The Frenchman was already being followed. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door.
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