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“Guess who I’m going out with?” Michelle asked her one day at lunch. 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. ’ He paused, but Melusine caught the inference. ” She paused again. Wood. gutenberg. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated.
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