He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. 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. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. There was another little thing he had to say. when I was five.
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