She would marry him. 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. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. "It was some time before I could get him to move. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. ” He stroked her hand gently.
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