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I have known Miss Pellissier as long as any of you perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in London. 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. It feels like I’ve got a snake of mucus stuffing my entire throat, just one big solid rope. “Well, I do. No one. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica.
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