“Oh, you can act!” she cried. Wood turned over to obtain a more comfortable position. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. 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. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing.
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