The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. 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. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk.
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