“But, you see, appearances are very much against me. Tell me that again. 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. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. Even this man had accepted her for “Alcide” without a moment’s question. “Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it.
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