” He coughed gently. "I guessed what was coming. She pulled her hand away quickly. She could not help herself. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. CHAPTER IV The tourists returned to the Sha-mien at four o'clock. 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.
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