’ A derisive snort greeted this passage. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. "But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you. But no more of that. 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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