Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub is found. 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. Take me with you. Mike dismissed her with a wave, and she left the room, knowing she could not say anything to please him she swiftly left the room.
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