"Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. "Do you call this frantic glee happiness?" "It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. ” “We will do it,” he declared. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. . “Shari told me. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. She dare not risk it. . ’ She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body. From the second descended Mr. 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. I went to the theatre that night.
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