It won’t even know whether to be scandalized at us or forgiving. 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 lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses.
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