His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. 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. I do not think that you will dare to marry anybody else. It seems to me very silly. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. But he's witty and amusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like a Paderewski. Look at these walls. ‘Come along. I’ll get in trouble. Small, but eminently serviceable.
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