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. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. “If only her sister is half as pretty, no wonder that she has set the Parisians talking. It was a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat. She fixed her brilliant eyes upon him. E. ‘But a spy I am not. She looked at him mournfully. ‘Seems to me, missie, as you’re as dangerous a female as I’m like to see. “I hope you are going to Carey House.
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