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. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. “No, that’s fine. . The signs of the shops were carried to incredible distances.
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