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. ‘Major, sir!’ The major appeared so swiftly that Melusine was instantly suspicious. She flared her upper lip, baring her canines which had extended by half an inch. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived.
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