He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. 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. " "'Zounds! Captain, I shall get my death of cold. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. “Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully. But he was always forcing her to say and do such unexpectedly conclusive things. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. “She told you that?” “Yes. But me, I am going to England. And, also, she wanted to borrow that money.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 22-09-2024 21:05:24
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