” Lucy coolly marveled as she studied the girl’s face, belly swollen from pregnancy. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. It was as if he could smell it on her. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. . ’ ‘Had the advantage of her this time,’ Roding put in before Gerald could respond. . 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.
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