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. We’ve brought a carriage to take you back to London, and I’ve settled with Trodger, who has just given me a coherent account of the affair. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. But it's confounded inconvenient. She did not wince. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death.
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