” She paused for a moment. She and I were very close. 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. Sometimes I try to talk. His hand rested heavily and cruelly upon Ruth's shoulder. By Jove! When I think of it I want to leap and shout!” “It would astonish that man with the barrow. In some things, in many things, you must trust to your elders, to those who know more of life than you do.
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