" "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. 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 was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy. Her head swam. ‘I live in Kent.
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