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. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. So, adroitly and patiently, he pulled Ruth apart; that is, he plucked forth a little secret here, another there, until he had quite a substantial array. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him.
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