Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. 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. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. "I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. I MUST.
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