" "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. She gathered up the chain, revealing a locket which had lain hidden in her bosom. 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 the man stands as the master at the mouth of the den. ’ ‘Oh yes, yes. .
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