Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. I have suffered all this. 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. . ‘It is not possible. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. While you live in my house you must follow my ideas.
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