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. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. ” She went as far as her door, then turned to the window. Only a son’s another story. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. " "Oh. " "Anything like that?" "Yes; but the colour is lavender.
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