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. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Because Leonardo, he made me see that I can be someone. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. See paragraph 1. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements.
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