Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. 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. ’ ‘Pah! You can never be Valade. I refused to sign a petition in his behalf to the Recorder; not from any ill-will to him, but because it was prepared by a person whom I particularly dislike— Captain Darrell. ‘I don’t want that girl running her head into any more danger. I had already won wars and sailed ships to distant lands by the time I was thirty. "Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice.
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