"I thought you were asleep. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. Jeremiah Jackson and Mr. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. 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. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours.
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