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. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. When other kids got sick at school, they always had Moms who would rescue them within minutes. 112 Sheila needed an early riser: a girl around the house to help cook and clean and walk the dog. "I repeat," said Ah Cum, "that the venture is not propitious. Just a formal marriage. You’re NOT to go.
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