" "My coat, please. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. ’ ‘His daughter, ma’am?’ Gerald asked. 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. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. "I'll take you into a Chinese home.
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