Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. Then it dawned. " "All right, Mr. 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. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. After the first courses however she scarcely noticed him. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. .
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