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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. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. “What of her? Have you quarrelled with her?” The girl shook her head. ” “So far,” she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, “my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. Perhaps she was. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. She did not try to approach him. "I am glad you think that," she replied. Funny codgers, aren't they?" he said.
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This video was uploaded to hkbifen.com on 29-05-2024 19:04:20
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