Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. The Night-Cellar. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. 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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