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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. ” Annabel shook her head. ‘Is it soft, the way you seize me from behind? Parbleu, my heart it is flown from my chest! Boom, boom, it goes, even now. Still no sound. ” “It gives in a nutshell the miracle of art and the imagination. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. “Excuse me a moment. She had never had a real doll. ” He stood up with his legs parted in an inverted “V”, puffing up, trying to make himself look bigger. “Hi John. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.

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