" The phrase was new, but Ruth nodded understandingly. I don’t defend it. We thought of starting in half an hour’s time, and trying for a theatre somewhere on the way. 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. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. They are the only happy women in the Orient.
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