They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. 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 risk I run is nothing to yours. Earles was absolutely indifferent. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. "Yes, your son, Madam.
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