Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. He closed the door. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. 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. Don't shake so. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. But I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely chastising you, on condition—" "You may do as you please, master," interrupted Jack, thrusting his hand into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; "but I wouldn't advise you to lay hands on me again. F. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat.
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