" He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. “Her husband was a county councillor, and she has a niece who comes to see her in a carriage. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. 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. “Where am I?” he muttered. The Ragged Edge. Soldiers were stationed at different points of the street to keep off the mob, and others were riding backwards and forwards to maintain an open space for the passage of the procession. " "They know what?" "When and when not to speak.
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