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. I would not have him know—now—for the world. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. It is no good arguing about a thing like that. .
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