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. It ought never to have begun. "If you've a fancy for the girl, we might do it. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. " "Then I owe my life to her?" "Positively. Wood. Martin was the only person to directly address Lucy again, trying to reassure her that “real vampires melt in direct sunlight.
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