But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. 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. ‘Possibly,’ he said. There are some islands upon which he is not permitted to land any more. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. ’ ‘You’re going to break into the house? You’re mad. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. They ascended by a lift to one of the upper floors, passed through a long ward, and finally came to a bed in the extreme corner, round which a screen had been arranged.
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