The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. 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.
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