. 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. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. John picked it up and put it in her hands. The thing is to get the patient on his feet. It was that somebody had cheated you. After all, why should I care what strangers think?" Ruth asked with sudden heat. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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