You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. The smile had become a laugh. 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. “There was an accident with a pistol in Miss Pellissier’s room,” he said. “Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you. Giles's church, the bell of which continued tolling all the time, passed the pound, and entered Oxford Road, or, as it was then not unfrequently termed, Tyburn Road. Good night.
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