"Jack has been keeping bad company. 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. Lord, I am sixty. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. . “Have you ever kissed a guy before?” She rolled the tissue into a ball in her lap and stared at it.
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