As for loving you, I do. ’ The door closed behind them both and Gerald was alone with Melusine. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. 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. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. “It is a pity that as nations we are not more friendly.
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