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. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. He flipped the television off. She was alone with a deadly enemy.
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