. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. ’ ‘Don’t be a fool, woman,’ snapped Charvill, thrusting himself further into the room. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. I wonder if she has any idea how oddly beautiful she is?" Ruth at that precise moment was engaged by a relative wonder. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. 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.
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