The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her. “Everything very nice, I am sure,” Miss Stanley murmured to Capes as he steered her to a place upon the little sofa before the fire. The winters were bitter here, they could have just as easily been frozen off. 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. It did not take a mind reader to glean that she had suddenly gained the boy’s obsessive attention.
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