This time they would call it murder. It was clear it must be to-morrow. Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand. 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 wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed.
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