” She saw him there the next week at the same time. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. He had become an extremely handsome man, his hair having darkened and his shoulders having realized their full size. 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. She was very pretty. ” The wedding-breakfast was for Ann Veronica a spectacle of the unreal consuming the real; she liked that part very well, until she was carelessly served against her expressed wishes with mayonnaise. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. She seemed honestly glad to see him.
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