The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. 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. " "Both are dead," observed the knight, gloomily. " "The very idea is dreadful," whimpered Edgeworth Bess.
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