He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. 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 thick body was heavy and massive. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. Once I banged on the door so hard I split it in two. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. “That’s what you’re going to wear. They were the same.
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