. ’ His brows rose. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. 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. Then, there's Mr. “Why can’t he reason with me,” she said, again and again, “instead of doing this?” Part 3 There presently came a phase in which she said: “I WON’T stand it even now. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. " "And you expect me to believe you after what has passed?" "I do; and, more than that, I expect you to thank me. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly.
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