The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. 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. ‘So it would appear. “Nothing. ” “It was an inspiration—your speaking to him?” “I felt impudent. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty.
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