He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. ” She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. He then arose, and, taking a few turns in the chamber, stopped suddenly before her. ” “Do you think that it was wise of you, or kind to come?” she asked quietly. 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. He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone.
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