” Sir John breathed a long deep sigh. "You open it, Ruth. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. 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. When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it. ’ A burning at his chest, the general ground his teeth. He looked no longer at his wife. Only her babe died.
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