He embraced her like her father once had. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. 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. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. .
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