” She said. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. "I'll be their substitute. Give up your lonely hours of work here. 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. She was good to me for the two years I stayed with her, she had a nice apartment in Galveston. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. The door leaned inward. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices.
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