\"Where have you been, young lady?\" Mike crooned, a large grin on his fat Irish face. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. I called myself Anna. 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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