The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. Then for a time she forgot the Fadden affair altogether. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. 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. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. "Gentlemen of the Mint," said the orator, "when I was first called, some fifty years ago, to the important office I hold, there existed across the water three places of refuge for the oppressed and persecuted debtor.
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