Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. This gloom was impossible. 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.
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