He knocked at the door. 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. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. ‘You have come to me in place of Gérard? But how is it you will help me?’ ‘That’s all right and tight. “Violence won’t do it,” said Ann Veronica.
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