" "Where are you going?" asked his mother. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. And I want you for myself—for my wife. 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. All the world over a wedding procession arouses laughter and derision in the bystanders. “I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know.
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