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. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. CHAPTER XII. . ” She tried to sound convincing as she looked away hotly. ” “You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession. “Curious case—and sets one thinking.
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