" Emptiness; that was the doctor's initial sensation: his vitals had been whisked out of him and the earth from under his feet. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. In the presence of the husband of his mistress Rollo was always dignifiedly cheerful, but he never leaped or cavorted as he did when alone with Ruth. 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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