” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered. 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. ‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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