“I’m not a good woman. ’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. 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. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. One night she apparently fell asleep. “He is evidently a friend of Mrs. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees.
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