She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. ‘Ah, yes,’ Gerald said, jumping down from the coach and waiting for the fellow to let down the steps for Melusine, ‘I had forgotten about you. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound. ‘Laisse-moi. "Hush!" she said. ‘But you,’ she said in the friendliest way imaginable, ‘are a person tout à fait sympathique, I think. 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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