B. 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 closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. Drawing the pay of life and then not living. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters.
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