Michelle greeted Mike with a smile. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. 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. She looked at him mournfully. CHAPTER II.
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