She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. " "Fill your glasses, gentlemen," observed Ireton, "and I'll tell you a droll thing Jack said this morning. Why do you look so sad?” She opened her eyes wider and stifled her emotions. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. ” “That will follow,” said Kitty Brett—“that will follow. Lady Angela shrugged her shoulders. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. 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.
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