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. She rang again with the same result. Even this man had accepted her for “Alcide” without a moment’s question. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. Burn your palette and your easel. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me.
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