Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. org/fundraising. 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. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. A fortnight passed, then a month. “Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power. To—to find myself. So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames quitted the room, and went down stairs.
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