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. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. Paintings sold off the walls. Do not slight my warning. We live under man-made institutions, and that is what they amount to. " "Here!" ejaculated Wood, with a look of alarm.
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