“Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. ’ ‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned. Old saltwater was right. 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.
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