’ ‘What, even less delightful than Gerald?’ enquired Lucilla, her eyes dancing. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. 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. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Then he paused. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will. So he marched into the street, primarily bent upon making the favourable discovery. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times.
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