82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. I'll tell you what. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. ‘Do not be imbecile. ’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer. 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. "One word before we part, adorable girl— only one," he continued, detaining her.
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