” Sir John turned towards the door. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. 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. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague.
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