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. But they cut it all off. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. "In favour of my son. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of St.
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