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 same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. I must say what I have to say!” “But not now—not here. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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