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. ’ ‘And you will not,’ came triumphantly from the cherry lips. “Let’s go home. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Henceforth, I utterly throw off the yoke you have laid upon me.
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