’ ‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. 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. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. CHAPTER I. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being.
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