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She had often wondered if Hoddy would ever go back to it. 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. ‘I thank you. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. 13 Montague Street. And for many years, that was the way it was. ” “Thanks for the nice evening, John. " And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of which I have spoken.
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