They sat in the front row. I have told you. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. 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. Little Anna screamed and thrashed as she was torn from Lucy’s skirts.
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