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. Not a scar but has its history. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. "Sometimes a cup of lies is a cheering thing," replied the trader.
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