I did not wish to be hounded by her family and a bunch of other scientific desperados for the rest of the millennia, did you?” “Then come live with me again, it is safer. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. Permit me to make him known to you—Mr. 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. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein.
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