“But Sebastian! I need them!” He smiled, not a smile of comfort, but a smile of terrible menace. That wasn’t even the worst thing. ’ Melusine turned her head. 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. 266 She peered up at him.
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