But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. 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 young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. 1. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released.
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