. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. This is something above all rules. Here again the clothes were minus the labels. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. 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 towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds.
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