The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. She was like an angel with one wing. 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. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. “Jacques is wounded and we are arrested by this imbecile of a sergeant. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald. Should be home soon. Between comrades it is the most usual thing in the world, and I do not see how your sex intervenes. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. It depends upon what he was before he began this racket. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger.
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