"Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. 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. The service began. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless.
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