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. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. " "Won't my life do as well as his?" supplicated the other. But ship that girl east as soon as you can. "Ruth?" Silence for a moment. txt or 15614-8.
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