The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. 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. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr.
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