260 “Can you turn me into one?” “Yes, I can turn you into one tonight. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. 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. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. Compared with her father and Mr.
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