” “Far away?” “I have no idea,” Anna answered. " "Company!" echoed Rachel; "at this time of night?" "Company, child," repeated Kneebone. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. 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. “Dear husband,” she murmured. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. A smile flickered upon her lips as she glanced towards Brendon, who was very serious indeed.
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