Her eyes quizzed the major. 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. Daughters were not like sons. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck.
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