” “You are his first wife!” The pieces fell together for her instantly. She hesitated. The tears flowed faster. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. ” “I thought Mr. Even as a child she observed how men were haunted 18 by the presence of her mother. 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. John said nothing. ’ He quirked an eyebrow. “It’s about forty pounds. ” Lucy snickered. He's got the gift of the gab.
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