Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. Certainly I never met him. The key is in my trousers. ‘Though he didn’t mean it. Me, you may have.
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