He brightened as she took off her hood. ‘But a week and some days,’ answered Valade. 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 was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the answers. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. "That depends upon what you call educated.
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