” She distantly remembered moments in childhood spent in phobic trance, when her father had told her God was punishing sinners in Hell. So he liked to go by a different train. His attention was focused on Melusine’s transfixed stare and he forgot to say any of the things he had planned to say. 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. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream.
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