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. “Would you stand it? I’m going to clear out. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Then he had gone away. ’ ‘Charvill, then,’ Gerald concluded, unperturbed. There was something indeed holding the whole species back from the imaginable largeness of life. It was obvious that he had waited for her. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. “Quite on my own,” she said.
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