” He leaned towards her. Kneebone and his Friends. 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. You go home and live on the G. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption. I’ll make any reasonable arrangement you like. ’ ‘Will you indeed? Truly?’ His smile held so much tenderness, she was tempted to surrender at once. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way. He stared at her breasts while he touched them.
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