“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. But I liked to say it. 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. On all hands Jack was cheered, and Jonathan hooted. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings.
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