Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. 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. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. My arm's nearly well again. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the ledge, and sank. I feel years younger, a man again. “I find it very hard to write this letter. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. He may die.
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