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. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from. Both ladies were on easy and friendly terms with all that was best in Morningside Park society; they had an afternoon once a month that was quite well attended, they sometimes gave musical evenings, they dined out and gave a finish to people’s dinners, they had a full-sized croquet lawn and tennis beyond, and understood the art of bringing people together. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. ” “But, daddy, what do you know of the place and the gathering?” “And it’s entirely out of order; it isn’t right, it isn’t correct; it’s impossible for you to stay in an hotel in London—the idea is preposterous. ” “I had some unexpected business,” Courtlaw answered shortly. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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