Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. 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. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. Lucy entered and Mike followed. I don’t want you to be sad.
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