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. ‘I thank you. At last he could bear it no longer. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. The young man had knocked over the siphon. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her.
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