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. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. He had not to wait long. ‘Hilary!’ The captain appeared, alert at the note in his major’s voice as Gerald had known he would be. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. But I mean to have them. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter.
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