It slipped out—as did that “she”. They had refused. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ” “Yes. 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. She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder. . Later, when they returned home, she would serve as the topic of many conversations. I want to stand between you and all the force and vileness of the world. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders.
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