She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. 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. He hated the taste of it. ” Annabel laughed hardly. “I made two fruit pies and now I have no one to eat them. It was thought, however, if the skipper could have been found, that the result of the case would have been materially different.
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