” “Do you think so? I find my interest in that sort of thing decline and decline. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. 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. The skipper obeyed, and in another moment, they swept through the narrow lock. .
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