. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. 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. Mr. ’ ‘I think you—’ He broke off abruptly, astonished at what he had been about to say. . “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded.
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