She continued to fan herself. “It rained the whole of the time, but we saw all the sights, and the place never seemed dull. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. 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 had no idea what she should do. Nor was Jack by any means the only stripling in the room. She spotted her opportunity. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way.
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