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. ’ Gerald seized on this. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. ” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit.
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