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 yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. She comprehends what we're about. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. " The spinsters stared at her blankly. I—In fact, I dislike him extremely. Don’t ask me how. "But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn't extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate robber as he is represented—so young, too, for such an old offender. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did.
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