His tone was kind and sympathetic. A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. " IV. A dressing-room then. 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. Originally built, as its name imports, in a cylindrical form, like a modern Martello tower, it had undergone, from time to time, so many alterations, that its symmetry was, in a great measure, destroyed. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Perhaps it was loneliness. That is an evil place!” She cried. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. “Indeed I shall not forget your offer.
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