’ ‘Parbleu, it is I who am the idiot?’ she scolded furiously, removing one hand and digging it into her sleeve. 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. It was Annabel’s. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man. The lady, who was indeed stunning, Gerald suddenly realised, said never a word. So these two young philosophers got along very well that day; and the succeeding days. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters.
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