He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. . He had become an extremely handsome man, his hair having darkened and his shoulders having realized their full size. 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. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. She cried out with the pain of it. ‘Let her go.
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