’ Gerald grinned. "Don't you perceive, my dear Mrs. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. “No!” she exclaimed. I’ll have to wait here, of course, which means you, Hilary—’ ‘Will have to do tomorrow’s patrol. Then instinct took over. 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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