"Not proud in the least, I declare. Why? Here was a curtain indeed. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. 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. He noted the strong white teeth as they snipped the thread.
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