” He met her questioning eye, and repeated, “Oh! it IS a success. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. 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. The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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