“Will you say what you have to say, please, and go. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. She still could not muster the strength to leave. 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. Ann Veronica listened thoughtfully, with her eyes on the turf, and now and then she asked a question or looked up to discuss a point. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all.
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