She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. 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. Horrible doubts assailed her. " "It is shut," said Mrs. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.
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