“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. Here are the jade carvers. 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. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece.
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