He was struck disagreeably by Ramage’s air of gallant consideration and Ann Veronica’s self-possessed answers. There was no one else in the doorway. 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 not only failed in making any impression, but seemed to increase the difficulties, for after an hour's toil he had broken the nail and slightly bent the iron bar. "I'm almost afraid to state it," faltered the other; "but, may I ask whether Mr. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. . He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork.
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