It’s true. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. 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. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. But—if you are a friend of Mr. "Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. His hands came up, his face broke apart. " "Humph!" ejaculated the carpenter.
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