Do look at this tragedy in mauve, who has just come in. No: I must face it out. “I will be off,” she declared. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. 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. I ought never to have thought of it.
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