The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. 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. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. The end of the world seemed at hand. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face.
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