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. Taking the light, they then proceeded along the passage. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. He had been thrilled at her attitude about the subject, which was simply not to turn others into vampires. ” “Not for you?” “No.
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