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. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. There never is much left for me. " "I should think not," observed Jonathan, who had some practice in the knight's moods, and knew how to humour him. She found herself asking more and more curiously, “Why, on the principle of the survival of the fittest, have I any sense of beauty at all?” That enabled her to go on thinking about beauty when it seemed to her right that she should be thinking about biology. She began to act. We have that gift. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred.
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