Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars. Mr. 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. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. Oh the back of her arm she found the faintest down of hair in the world. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything.
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