Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. 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. Her belly was being touched, she felt her thighs caressed softly. ’ To Gerald’s relief, the entrance of the butler interrupted them, relieving him of the necessity to explain himself.
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