She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. That is easy. 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. He would never recognize me now. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well.
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