“What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. "Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well. We have so much to be thankful for. 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 was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. I know that in my heart I would take whatever he gave. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. “I shall have to go through the building.
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