The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. ’ ‘So would you run away,’ she uttered impulsively. ’ Arrested, Melusine eyed her with interest. 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. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it.
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