In the end he broke his own heart along with your mother's. ” He looked at her, his eyes illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. 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. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit.
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