She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. ‘Imbecile. “What is going on between you two?” Lucy asked. 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. Mrs. Lucy sat beside him. ’ ‘Marry you!’ He shot off the desk, such horror in his face that Melusine felt a little irritated. ‘They eloped. It reminded Ann Veronica of having a tooth stopped. Preparations were next made for taking Thames on board.
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