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. He was accompanied by Ireton and Austin. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. Lucy sighed, finding it odd to switch roles as she had over the past weeks. Stanley, having pretended to linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and when Veronica tapped he answered through the locked door, “Go away, Vee! I’m busy,” and made a lapidary’s wheel buzz loudly. It was no wonder Gianfrancesco had looked up to Sebastian so, the doctor’s nature radiated masterfulness and dominance. I am an old friend, and I declined to be shelved. The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties.
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