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. “I have my methods. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. "I shall behold the shameless hussy, face to face; and, if I find her as good-looking as she's represented, I don't know what I'll do in the end; but I'll begin by scratching her eyes out. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. We're to be given a treat to-night.
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