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Jonathan smiled contemptuously. 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. . Anna crossed the street, and letting herself in at No. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. “I can survive on my own. She was my first love. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully. ” “Don’t be foolish,” he said sharply. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up.
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