‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. 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. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. "Mr.
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