‘But don’t let me stop you from going to see Charvill. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. But I waited in vain. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. 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. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. ‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman.
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