She had fallen asleep. Both ladies were on easy and friendly terms with all that was best in Morningside Park society; they had an afternoon once a month that was quite well attended, they sometimes gave musical evenings, they dined out and gave a finish to people’s dinners, they had a full-sized croquet lawn and tennis beyond, and understood the art of bringing people together. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Not many years ago, two men, employed on this duty, quarrelled during the night, and in the morning their bodies were found stretched upon the pavement of the yard beneath. “Everything goes on, confound it! One doesn’t change anything one has set going by making good resolutions. 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. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way.
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