“Ah, Vee,” he said, “that’s better! and kissed her back rather clumsily. Martha had been more to her than that. 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 so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. “Then I don’t take this as final. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers.
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