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 expected you this morning,” he said. Ancak o dönemde, insanlar kötü kokuların ve hijyen eksikliğinin yaygın olduğu bir dönemde yaşıyordu. You said that it would bring trouble. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Gerald lifted an eyebrow. No matter. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. I could not have spoken to her. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home. This man and he were alike, and about the same age.
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