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. You guys don’t fool around, that was one big Thanksgiving dinner. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact.
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