“Look at me. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. 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 became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. They went down the great staircase of the building, and, while she sought in her mind for a beginning, he broke into appreciation of her simple dress and selfcongratulations upon their engagement. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. "I will be there at the time. " Her attitude now entirely sisterly, he ceased to be afraid of her; there was never anything in her eyes (so far as he could see) but friendly interest in all he said or did. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. " "As in a dream. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom.
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