‘Of course. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. He had taken it back. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. 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. B.
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