Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Mike chimed in. 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. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. "I have killed her," cried Jack. Andrews novels, her collection of old teddy bears, Paddington 2 minus his yellow hat, a yellowing white bear won in a carnival with one eye missing. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?" "God alone knows!" "And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger.
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