The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. 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. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. His name was Sebastianus. She is the wife now of another man. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers.
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