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. “Did they ever try it for themselves?” He wrestled his chin between her thighs as she tried to squeeze her legs shut upon his ears. ’ Exasperated, Gerald glared at her. His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. But I’m going to-day. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading.
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