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. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt. Lucy knocked again. I do want them. Lost me place, that’s all. Vampires are very lonely creatures, John.
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