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I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. ’ The girl held out her hands. ’ ‘No, of course you could not,’ Gerald soothed. I'll tell you what. 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.
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