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. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. “This place is very beautiful. She didn’t realize she was until one day she has horrible cramps and she screams for me while she is on the toilet, and then she screams for her mother. ” “Exactly! And so you came along to me. She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him.
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