It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman. Anna jumped into a waiting hansom. 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 thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet.
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