It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. 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 didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon.
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