Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. At least for one moment, it was. 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. “Don’t!” she begged. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. She backed away from him. “It’s something that bothers me. Chuck was parading around with Joanie’s brassiere and underpanties on, with the kids in the very next room! It was hard to look into Chuck’s eyes when she invited the couple over for dinner after witnessing Chuck’s little episode.
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