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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. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger
to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred
my displeasure. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. Meat pies with sweet crust were
stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were
pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated
in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in
cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that
he loved were present. His
attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled
face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. His hand rested heavily
and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. ”
“I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get
some such entanglement.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 22-06-2024 19:42:37