The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. ‘Don’t tell me. My father died a year ago, by the way. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid.
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