She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. 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. “How would you know?” Michelle’s interest was piqued. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently.
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