‘We was of an age, you see, miss. 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. She turned there and beckoned. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. A young woman with a white badge on her arm stood and counted the sections as they entered their vans.
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