" "He couldn't help it, Ruth. 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 had something of the feeling a Hindoo must experience who has been into surroundings or touched something that offends his caste. He’s terrible!” “Dad!” Lucy smiled at John. Nobody can anticipate your next move. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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