Section 3. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. 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. . "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Her mouth was an effective tourniquet. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. I wonder if he really wants me to go home.
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