“Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. 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.
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