Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. She turned her head away sharply. 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 was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived.
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