” “Well, perhaps it is a bit depressing. Three cars were lined up in the driveway. “Why?” he asked, suavely. She alone of them all knew that he was on the first leg of the terrible journey to the beach. 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. ” “Alive,” Annabel moaned, her eyes large with terror. He envied her a little.
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