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. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. It wasn't worth while to invest imaginatively a man with evil projects simply because he was physically ugly.
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