But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. I can’t. 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. No mercenary consideration influences me. ” Anna moved softly to the window, and threw up the sash. ’ ‘You see, I am of them,’ she said seriously, ‘but not with them—yet. Wood, I forget nothing. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces.
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