” The note of his own voice exasperated him. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. 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. They were just nice. He was not able to recognize, as the doctor did, that she was only a natural woman. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women.
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