" "Merciful providence!" exclaimed the female. She struggled not to be afraid. The storm burst upon them in its fury. 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. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. “Our ways happened to lie together. But things that a girl of sixteen may do in short skirts are not things to be done by a young lady of twenty-one in fancy dress and an opera-cloak, and just as she was coming unaided to an adequate realization of this, she discovered Mr.
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