“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. 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. \"Let's get out of here. “Are you going to the Vorsack’s for dinner tonight?” “Yes, I think I’ll stop by. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour. She doubted if Manning would even listen to that.
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