256 Lucy chose her words carefully. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. 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. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful.
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