He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. 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. Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene.
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