She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. 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. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. And yet, dang it! I've seen 'em just as innocent looking that were prime vipers.
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