" Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. 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. " "Are you sure of that?" returned Winifred, looking uneasily at Jack.
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