There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. 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. It gave her joy to see them laughing, even though she was unsure of what she had done wrong.
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