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. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Nor my grandfathers both. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. ‘Rather thought I’d have to disarm you when you heard of it.
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