From her stomacher, to which it was attached by a multitude of glittering steel chains, depended an immense turnip-shaped watch, in a pinchbeck case. ‘We were wondering about that. . ‘I think that was what began his downfall. 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. Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. Eh bien, she must use her tongue against him. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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