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. It isn't your duty. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active.
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