Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. 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.
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