Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. There is worse to come. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. 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. “What I am after is that beauty isn’t a special inserted sort of thing; that’s my idea. I knew it.
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