Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other. ‘In fact, I’ve never met anyone who goaded me to so much violence. E. 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. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman.
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