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. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. “What has he done? “What shall I do. ” He said. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display.
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