“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. "My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. Epithalamy might do. I don’t mind telling you chaps that except on the stage I haven’t set eyes on her this side of the water. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. ’ Jack gasped. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. 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. “I wrote it for you.
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