He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. It might be dangerous to thwart him. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Meysey Hill—never your wife. 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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