There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. " "I can answer that," replied Thames. ” “What was wrong with them?” Michelle asked timidly. 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. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible.
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