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. ‘She may well try to go back. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. “Shhh. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth.
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