Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. He could not doubt it. But for him she might have been alive and happy. He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. 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. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs.
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