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. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Some day older people, perhaps, will trouble to understand younger people, and there won’t be these fierce disruptions; there won’t be barriers one must defy or perish. Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the incident just described. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. ‘I do not know of whom you speak.
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