A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU. Maggot. 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. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted.
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