His eyes flashed as he turned towards her. 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. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented. ’ Joan nodded, her face still averted. I wonder if a man can quite understand that passionate feeling? It is quite a passionate feeling. “Curious case—and sets one thinking.
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