. . '—'They can't,' says I. Right now my heart is occupied. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. At present, he is under the protection of Jonathan Wild. 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. ’ Lucilla burst into laughter and clapped her hands.
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