On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. He closed the door. 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. Very well, then. . S. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. CHAPTER THE SECOND ANN VERONICA GATHERS POINTS OF VIEW Part 1 “Are you coming to the Fadden Dance, Ann Veronica?” asked Constance Widgett. Its smooth surface soothed her nerves.
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