His tone was rough, almost threatening. 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. Jonathan, however, still lingered. 1. She looked steadfastly out. Before he forced an entrance, Jack tried it, and, to his great surprise and delight, found it unfastened. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery.
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