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. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. Come and help me pack. “Well, well, Martin. " McClintock whistled.
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