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. If the boy was legging it alone…. ” “Were you sexually abused? Was it a miscarriage?” “No. "I am going to give you a try. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. ” She pressed her ear to the door. I won’t even ask. ” “No? But it is very simple. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way.
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