But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. “Are you in a hurry? Will you come in and have some coffee?” He hesitated, and glanced towards her companion. 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. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. Stars appeared in the periphery of her vision. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling.
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