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 sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her. He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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