He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. She's fine. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. ‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this. 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. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. He crawled underneath the covers with her. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. It was among artistic people.
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