He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. “It’s like the Picture and the Bust. There was a long silence between them. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings.
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