The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view. 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. You and I. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. He greeted the corpulent boy at the register, whose tag read, \"MY NAME IS Jason\" with familiarity.
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