Losing his presence of mind, Jack quitted his hold, and dropped upon the frame. 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 touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. He could scarcely blame her. Her unnatural calm was giving way.
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