“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. ’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Lucilla enthusiastically. I’ve had enough of it. 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. ’ Hilary eyed him. . It was the beginning of June.
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