. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. 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. What had Brewis Charvill to say to that, Gerald?’ ‘He had nothing to say to it. When you send for me I shall come back. Then a roar of hisses.
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