Stanley’s pace slackened. 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. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. All the best novels have been written by women, and yet see how men sneer at the lady novelist still! There’s only one way to get on for a woman, and that is to please men. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch.
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