" "We shall see," rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel. "I have dreamed that I shall see him before I die," she rejoined. 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 will be wearing your travelling dress, and no doubt you would prefer it. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work.
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