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. ” She said. Hitherto in the world’s history there had been precursors of this Progress at great intervals, voices that had spoken and ceased, but now it was all coming on together in a rush. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. It forbids—all sorts of things. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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