‘Hilary was right. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. ” “Ye—e—es. Ovarian cancer. 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. “Aren’t we all just odds and ends of humanity —the left-overs, you know. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. The only thing they don’t fight over is the addition. Wood, severely, "and go to bed.
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