Then there came briskly along the path towards her, an Englishman. 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. Maggot, kissing her hand to him. " "Is this your notable scheme!" asked the knight, scornfully. “And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him.
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