It hardly served his interests. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. ’ ‘As if you could stop her. “My God!” and ceased to move. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. It was impulsive and natural. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. 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.
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