I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. According to what I’ve heard, you oughtn’t to be here. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. Other times, the Buick was host to intense make-out sessions that lasted until the sun rose. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. 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. He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her.
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