Youth! You denied me even that," said Ruth, her glance now flashing to her father. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. 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. They were familiar but more massive. " "Caught you napping, eh?" rejoined Ireton, with a laugh. ’ ‘He said!’ Melusine uttered scornfully. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him.
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