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. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. Without Jack, it was certain that she faced danger if she went outside Golden Square. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. “What do you want to go out here for, Lucy?” He 217 asked. “I do love you.
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