Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. 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. One of his converted Kanakas dropped in one day.
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