I cannot do it, David. 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 sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said.
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