“Now look here, Veronica, let us be plain with each other. ” She said. 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. He waited. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. But his own ferocity was less now that she was disarmed.
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