He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. 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 alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. "Now come along, Jack. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. An ancient smile lay on his lips. He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom.
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