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. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. They almost made me feel like they were mine. Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. “I don’t know, John, but I think there is something going on with Michelle. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough.
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