Nevertheless, she was still fighting. 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. “My dear sweet Lucia. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. There was going to be no quarter between these two. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. “All day.
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