The girls had such freedom, a wonderful chance afforded to them to go out in the wide world before making babies, it was nothing like the world she had come of age in. It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. She may have any number of wasting diseases, but they cannot survive in our bodies. And on Monday and Tuesday she had failed to find him here. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. 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. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. They seed beyond all reason. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. They clapped wildly afterward.
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